'He will come and see me soon,' she said to herself. 'May I have my strength to do what is right.' Then she seated herself at her work.
Kate was in the house, lively as a finch. Honor was always reserved: she was now more silent than usual. Kate's humour was unusually lively. Her tongue moved as nimbly as her feet and fingers, her conversation sparkled, and her tones danced like her eyes. When she was not talking she was singing. She made her jokes and laughed over them herself, as Honor was in no laughing mood.
Oddly enough, Sam Voaden was daily in the lane. He came round by the cottage from Swaddledown to ask at Chimsworthy after Larry; he made two miles out of a journey that need not have been three-quarters across the fields. When Sam went by he whistled very loud, and then Kate found that the pitcher was empty and needed replenishing at the well; on such occasions, moreover, the pitcher took a long time filling. Kate made no secret of her heart's affairs to her sister. It was in her nature to talk, and a girl in love likes nothing better, when not with her lover, than to talk about him.
Honor put away her needlework and got the supper-table ready, and whilst she was putting the cold pasty on the table her father walked in. He was going next day to Tavistock, and had been round for commissions.
He was out of spirits, did not say much, wiped his face with his sleeve, and complained of the weather—it was sultry, he was tired. Some of his customers had been exacting and had worried him. 'The pasty is heavy; it goes against me,' he grumbled. 'All well for young appetites.'
'Shall I do you a bit of bacon, father?' asked Honor.
'Rich that,' he said discontentedly. 'I'm fanciful in my eating. I can't help it; I'm too poor to have what would suit me. It is in my constitution. Those who have the constitutions of gentlefolk want the food of gentlefolk.' He took a little piece of pasty, but pushed it away. 'It makes my throat rise; look at that great hunch of suet in it, like a horse-tooth (quartz spar) in granite. I can't eat anything; you may clear away.'
Actually Oliver Luxmore had eaten supper at one of the farms; that was why he had now no appetite; but he made occasion of his having no relish for his food to grumble and make Honor uncomfortable.
'The fog was a hunting this morning, so we've had a fine day for going nowhere, and it's gone a fishing this evening, to let me understand it will rain to-morrow when I go into Tavistock. It is always so. Bain on market days to spoil my custom and run away with profits.'
In explanation of his words, it is necessary to say that, when the white fog mounts the hills it is said to go hunting, when it lies along the rivers it is said to be fishing, and these conditions of fog are weather indications.